


The Difference a Year Makes

by PoemJunkie



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Attempted Sexual Assault, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-01
Updated: 2014-05-01
Packaged: 2018-01-21 11:06:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,394
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1548395
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PoemJunkie/pseuds/PoemJunkie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Gallagher at fifteen really hadn’t been Mickey’s type. Too skinny, too short, not big enough to really stand up against Mickey, pin him down the way he sometimes wanted.</p><p>What a difference a year makes.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Difference a Year Makes

When Mickey jerks it, he thinks of action stars. Shirtless men, big, broad, muscled, sweaty and dirty. That’s what gets his crank turning.

The first time he fucks Ian Gallagher, it’s not a big deal. They’re fighting, and Ian is holding his own. There’s strength in his arms. He’s not much taller than Mickey, who’s not a tall guy, but he definitely has some muscle definition there. Mickey still wins, throwing Ian against the wall with an ooph, pinning him to the bed easy as anything.

Still, his dick inches from Ian’s mouth, the kid looking up at him with big green eyes, freckles everywhere, it's not unappealing. He’s not really Mickey’s type, but he’s there and amenable. This is South Side. Mickey doesn’t have gay men knocking on his door lining up to fuck him. He takes what he can get.

Ian flips him to his stomach, naturally, even though Mickey knows that most people wouldn’t assume that he likes it like that. Mickey spreads his legs for him, lets Ian push his hard dick against his ass. Ian’s a little skinny, but in this area, he’s definitely not lacking.

“Side drawer,” Mickey gasps, digging his forehead into his pillow.

“Yeah, yeah, okay,” Gallagher gasps back fumbling the drawer open. There’s nothing incriminating in there. No porn or toys or anything besides some lotion to ease the way and condoms.

Gallagher fucks like a dream. He rushes through the prep, doesn’t stretch enough, maybe because he thinks Mickey’s more experienced than he really is. Mickey likes it though, likes the rough and raw feeling, even though it hurts more than a little bit.

When they finish, Ian rolls off of him, and Mickey rolls in the opposite direction. They’re both sweating, and Mickey’s sore in a way that means he’s had sex. And good sex. Sex with a man. In his bed. In his father’s house.

Before he can even fully process that, Terry makes every nightmare he’s ever had about this scenario come true by shuffling through Mickey’s bedroom on his way to the bathroom. Mickey freezes, body tense, head and shoulders held up off the pillow from sheer panic. He’s naked. Gallagher’s naked, hell Gallagher hasn’t even had the opportunity to pull the condom off his dick yet, and they’re probably about to get shot and thrown into a shallow grave somewhere. This was not the way he planned to go out.

He shot a glance at Gallagher, who looks identically terrified. Mickey actually feels a little bad that Gallagher’s going to go out with him.

Except that doesn’t happen. Terry finishes pissing and shuffles back through. “Mandy’s making eggs,” Terry says, gruff. Then he pauses, and glances over at the bed, and Mickey is sure this is it. That somehow, miraculously, Terry hadn’t even noticed them, and now…well, Terry is closer to Mickey’s gun stash than Mickey is.

“And put on some clothes. You look like a couple a fags.”

And that’s it. Terry walks away. Ian and Mickey both slump in relief. It’s like dodging a bullet. The two hurry to get dressed, Ian disposing of the condom. Mickey even gives Gallagher the gun back, because why the fuck not?

Mickey is rubbing his lip with his thumb when Ian looks up at him, and Christ, Mickey knows that fucking look. Ian leans forward just a little, looking intent.

“Kiss me and I’ll rip your fucking tongue out,” Mickey says as he turns away. He has to lay down the law now. It’s probably a bad idea to start something, with how narrowly they just missed out on being killed. But Mickey’s not stupid, either. He knows this won’t be the last time.

He walks out to the kitchen, sits with Terry and one of his brothers at the table, serves himself some eggs. He doesn’t look back at Mandy talking to Ian in the hallway.

It’s not the last time. Not by a long way. Mickey starts stopping by the Kash and Grab whenever he feels like a fuck, and Gallagher always seems up for it. He never asks if Mickey wants to top, which is also a plus. Mickey feels no desire to top.

Gallagher’s actually got a little more muscle tone to him than Mickey first thought. He knows that Gallagher goes in for that military shit, and trains after school and goes on gay weekend camping trips. He’s still pretty skinny, but deceptively strong, and Mickey can make it work for him. Gallagher’s a year younger than him, only 15, and he seems like he’ll fill out.

Until then, he still fucks like a dream.

Fucking Kash and Grab walking in on them is nowhere near as frightening as having Terry walk in while the come was still warm on Mickey’s stomach. Kash is the biggest fucking pussy that Mickey’s ever met in his life, and never lifts a finger to defend himself or his property when Mickey steals from his store.

He’s also fucking Gallagher as well as being a fucking Arab, and all Mickey has to do is drop one word in the right ear about Kash and Grab being a fag as well as a towel head and someone will put him in the ground. It’s not like Terry will take Kash’s word over Mickey’s, anyway.

He doesn’t imagine it will come to that when he returns to the store next time he’s in the neighborhood. He figures a little intimidation, just making it clear that he has the power here, and Kash will shut his trash mouth good and tight. Mickey can probably even get him to stay the fuck away from Gallagher, which would be a definite plus.

He really couldn’t have expected that the fucking camel jockey would grow big enough balls overnight to fucking shoot him, even if it is just in the leg.

It’s pretty much a miracle that Mickey has managed to get through the first sixteen years of his life without landing in Juvie. It was bound to happen sooner or later, and he’s both relieved and pissed that it’s something as minor as theft by concealment – just fucking call it shoplifting, he thinks, he didn’t conceal shit. It means he’ll only be in here for a maximum of a year, probably less since it was a non-violent crime and the justice system has bigger fish to fry.

Being injured doesn’t help his case, and Mickey feels on edge, like he has to protect his back every God damned minute. Someone could jump him so easily, and he can’t even fight back properly with his leg fucked up. That could get very bad, very fast. Right now, the only thing saving him is the reputation his brother’s have in here and the sure knowledge of every repeat offender that the brothers Milkovich aged under 18 will eventually end back in here, and they will not hesitate to stab anyone that raped their little brother.

Mickey’s also building up his own reputation, not resting on the laurels of his family name. He doesn’t start shit, but when shit gets started, well, it’s not like they can actually take his crutches away from him for being potential weapons, and he’s already ruined one pair cracking it over someone’s head in the shower when they tried to get him from behind.

When they tell him he’s got a visitor, he thinks maybe Mandy braved the infamous dyke guards to pay him a visit. She’s the only one who would, he thinks.

He’s surprised its Gallagher, but maybe only a little. They were getting to be a pretty regular thing for awhile, and Mickey knows that Ian’s not completely blameless in how the confrontation with Kash went down. That fucker would not have pulled a gun if Gallagher had kept it in his pants and resisted the temptation to fuck a guy that’s twice his age.

But whatever, Mickey’s not the type to hold a grudge, and this visit may be the only one he gets the whole time he’s here, so he hobbles over and sets the crutches aside. He wonders how gay it looks to have a guy friend come and visit you in Juvie. Gallagher certainly looks the part of the anxious girlfriend, Jesus Christ.

Mickey tries to keep it strictly business. This isn’t a fucking conjugal visit. “Thanks for putting money in my commissary account,” he mutters as soon as he picks up the receiver. “I was running low on smokes.”

“Not me,” says Gallagher. “Kash.”

Mickey’s eyebrows go up of their own accord. That dumbshit does not feel bad about putting a bullet in Mickey’s thigh, and he would lay money on that.

Gallagher’s lip goes up in a little smirk. “I told him you might still press charges.”

Mickey can’t help the very small start of a grin that threatens to break out on his lips. Gallagher’s not actually all that bad. That’s even sort of inventive. It’s actually more than Mickey would have figured the little redheaded Gallagher capable of. He sort of wonders if Lip gave him the idea.

“Thanks.” He pulls the receiver a little away from his mouth working his jaw some. God he wishes that he were out of this shithole and on the other side of the glass.

But even as Mickey’s sort of relaxing into the conversation, Gallagher seems to get serious, ducking his head and peering at Mickey from beneath an orange fringe. “How long?”

Mickey doesn’t like to think about it. He’s a Milkovich, so it was always a given that he’d end up in Juvie before he turned 18, and it’s pretty much a given that he’ll do at least one stint in big-boy jail before he gets popped doing something stupid. It doesn’t mean that Juvie’s some ghetto wet dream.

“I dunno,” he mutters, looking everywhere but at Gallagher. “Supposed to be a year, right? Maybe only a couple of months if I don’t do anything stupid.”

Mickey looks down the line at the other boys having their own visits. There’s another redhead down the line, hair not as bright as Gallagher’s, but it always pisses Mickey off to see it bobbing about in the mess or the showers. It makes his heart jump a little every time, even though he’s not dumb and he knows it’s not Gallagher. It makes him feel anxious and itchy. Plus the guy is an asshole at the lunch table. If you look away from your tray for even a second, all of a sudden the fucker has an extra dessert cup on his tray.

“Like what?”

“Like stab that fat fucking MICK THAT KEEPS TRYING TO STEAL MY JELLO!” he yells the last in the direction of the redhead down the row. The guy looks up from his receiver and turns his head in Mickey’s direction.

“Who, me?” he calls back.

“Yeah!” Mickey shoots back.

“Fuck you!” the guy returns.

This will probably start some shit he might not be able to finish on his gimp leg, but he hardly cares. He finishes shooting the fat redhead a glare and refocuses on Gallagher, who’s a sight better view in any case. He licks his lips.

Gallagher is practically squirming in his seat, ducking his head like he’s fucking demure. “I…I miss you,” he says, and at least he’s got the fucking sense to keep his voice down a little. But Jesus Christ, does this kid not understand where he is? Does he not understand what knowing Mickey voluntarily takes it up the ass will lead to with these fuckholes he’s surrounded with for the next 12 months? Mickey doesn’t have any desire to have anyone but Gallagher try to get up on him.

“You say that again, I’ll rip your tongue outta your head,” Mickey informs him flatly.

Instead of looking properly intimidated or chastised, Gallagher just fucking grins at him, like Mickey made some amusing little joke. Mickey breathes hard out of his nose and glancing to either side of him, because fuck, this kid is gonna get him killed. Then like an idiot in a movie, Gallagher reaches out to put his fingertips on the glass, like Mickey’s going to match him and they’re going to pretend to be girlfriends.

“Take your hand off the glass,” he orders, before Ian’s hand is even fully on the glass.

“Oh,” Ian says, and his hand drops. “Sorry.”

They don’t actually have all that much to talk about. Mostly because they know almost nothing about each other. They don’t talk, they fuck, and that’s a fine relationship as far as Mickey’s concerned.

When Gallagher leaves, that’s the last time that Mickey sees him until he’s released from Juvie.

It’s not like he cries about it or anything.

There’s fuck all to do in the joint, but the one thing that Mickey likes is using the gym. He has to go at first because he’s supposed to work his leg as part of his physical therapy, which hurts like hell and sucks balls, and not even in the fun way. But eventually that fades, and Mickey realizes the best part about hanging around the gym – everyone else has realized that there’s fuck all to do around here too.

Everyone exercises in the joint, and if Mickey plants himself on a bench and starts lifting some dumbbells, he can get a nice view of the room.

He’s careful. He’s fucking careful as fuck. But he does enjoy the view.

There’s a blond boy with splotchy freckles that has really nice arms, and a tall boy with caramel skin that likes to strip down to a white tank that shows all of his abdominals. There are no redheads, which Mickey assures himself isn’t at all disappointing.

He also likes what all the working out has done for his own definition. His arms are definitely better looking now, with grooves of muscle that weren’t there before. He even starts to bulk up a little in his shoulders and chest, which is nice. Mickey’s always kind of been short and tended towards wiry.

He’s still short, just shy of five-foot-seven, and he’ll soon learn that he’s only got about another quarter-inch of growth in him before his height stalls out. Now, he’s still got hope that he’ll put on some height to match his new physique.

If the gym is the best thing about Juvie, then by far the worst is the fact that being incarcerated doesn’t mean Mickey doesn’t have to go to school. In fact, it’s worse than being on the outside, because on the outside Mickey didn’t always go to class, and absolutely no one, from his teachers on down, gave one single fuck. In fact, Mickey is sure that there were teachers that thanked God every class a Milkovich decided to skip.

Here, there are people that keep track of that shit, and nowhere to go even if he could skip.

He puts in no effort. He actively puts effort into putting in no effort, because where no one blinked if you didn’t turn in an assignment in High School, in Juvie they automatically assumed it meant you had a learning disability, since most of the kids that got locked up here were some kind of retarded.

They try to figure out if Mickey’s dyslexic. They try to figure out if he’s illiterate. Eventually they figure out he’s just a grade-A bullshitter. And even that doesn’t make them leave him alone. They make him go to counseling where the guy drones endlessly about Mickey’s self-esteem and self-worth and how his father made him feel like he wasn’t worth anything, so now Mickey doesn’t even try.

Mickey sprawls ever-more indolently during these sessions, looking at his counselor through hooded eyes and nodding when it’s expected of him and making smart comments when he can’t get away with silence.

The counselor never gets close to the fact that Mickey likes to fuck men, which he was kind of worried about when it started. So that’s something.

About three months in, Mickey gets jumped for the first time. There are kids in here that have been here a long time or at least have been here over and over again, and know all the tricks, all the blindspots and the guards that don’t care.

Mickey doesn’t even know the guys. They just beat on him for the fun of it.

One of them, the ring-leader, is one of the guys Mickey sees in the gym a lot. Mickey used to like watching him on the rowing machine. Maybe the guy knows it.

Mickey doesn’t go down without a fight, like a good Milkovich, but there’s three of them, and they’re all bigger than he is. Mickey would think it’s a pussy move, but it’s not like he and his brothers haven’t pulled similar maneuvers before. If he had his brothers in here with him, he’d certainly never move without them at his back. Must be nice to have a posse.

Eventually, they push him to his knees, the two lackeys holding him there by arms and shoulders. The tall one, the ring-leader, grabs Mickey’s hair and unzips himself with his other hand. The violence and struggle has already made him half hard.

“You bite, and you’ll lose your teeth,” the guy warns, reaching out to dig into Mickey’s jaw with his fingers, trying to force his mouth open.

Mickey grins a bloody grin and jerks his head forward and into the guys groin as hard as he can manage. He has to rip out chunks of his hair to do it, but hell, what is he, trying to win a beauty contest?

The tall guy goes down like a sack of bricks, a handful of Mickey’s hair falling from his fingers as his hands automatically protect his pathetic package.

The two holding Mickey stare dumbly at their leader for a moment, before deciding to take it out on Mickey. The beating hurts, but no one’s dick goes in any of Mickey’s orifices, so he just laughs his way through it.

Mickey ends up in the infirmary for awhile after that, which is nice, because he doesn’t have to worry about anyone stealing his food, but he gets out pretty quickly. His first day out, he waits until the tall boy walks into the mess and stabs him with his fork.

It’s only plastic, but Mickey goes for the face, and the guy will probably have a scar.

They give him an extra month for it.

It’s worth it.

The guy gets out two months later and Mickey writes a letter to his brother Iggy. Two weeks later, Iggy writes back a letter that doesn’t have any words, just a smiley face drawn with a red crayon.

Mickey quietly conveys the news throughout the system. No one tries to mess with him again.

Mickey doesn’t fuck anyone in Juvie. And after that one incident, no one tries to fuck him. It’s not like he wants any of he assholes in here, even though he likes to look at some of them. It’s just that no sex after a fairly steady diet of it leads to certain consequences.

Jerking off is like a nighttime national sport in Juvie. Everyone can hear everyone else, and one dude jerking it can start off a regular jack-fest. And since there’s always someone on the block trying to scratch an itch, it basically means that every night, Mickey grasps his dick in his hands, listening for the soft slaps and moans around him.

Sometimes he thinks of his fellow gym goers. Their long lean muscles, the power in their arms. Imagines them holding him down, but only because he let them, only because he says its okay. Imagines the flexing muscles in their thighs as they fuck him.

Sometimes he thinks of Gallagher, and Gallagher’s cock. Sometimes he thinks of Gallagher’s shy little smile and the definition just beginning to grove its way across his chest and abs. Sometimes when he’s feeling extra brave, when it’s very late and he’s covered by his sheet and blanket, he’ll steal an extra hand down to open himself with his fingers, remembering how it was when Gallagher would do this for him, slow and gentle and like he cared, almost.

He thinks about Gallagher a lot.

When he finally gets out, he expects to see Mandy waiting for him. He knows that she’ll be there, and he knows that his brothers and his dad probably won’t be, but there will be a party later, with lots of drinking and weed. That’s how they show they give a shit.

Mandy’s always been a little better than that, a little better than any of the Milkovich brothers – better than all of them combined. It’s not a question that she’ll be waiting for him to get out.

They give him back his clothes, which have been washed but are so stained and dingy they look filthy anyway. Mickey kind of got used to daily showers in Juvie, of having clean skin and clothes, even if the clothes were the kind of soul-sucking identical monstrosities that made his skin itch in a different way. There weren’t as many bruises to hide in Juvie, and when there were, it wasn’t like he had to worry about some Social Services bitch taking him and Mandy and Joey and Iggy away if someone saw them. Mickey wonders if he’ll have to go back to not showering again. Maybe not. He kind of bulked up in the past year, maybe his dad will be a little more hesitant to smack him around. The older brothers Milkovich, the bigger ones, have never carried as many bruises as Mickey.

When he puts on the dingy tank-top, it feels like donning his old South Side armor. When he steps out and sees Mandy on the other side of the gate, it’s like coming home. But then he sees, waiting beside her, arms crossed and shifting from side to side in what some might call an anxious manner, is Ian Gallagher.

He looks different, is the first thing that Mickey notices. So different that it took a moment to register that it was Gallagher at all. He’s shot up, for one thing. When Mickey went into Juvie, he and Gallagher were nearly the same height. Now, Gallagher is clearly taller.

He cut his hair, too, cropped tight and close to his head in a military style. It’s not like Mickey didn’t know that Gallagher was into that shit, but he didn’t really expect Gallagher to look so damn good like that in a tight t-shirt and dark pants. His hair looks brighter short like this, less red and more orange. He has less freckles now, his skin pale like Mickey’s is pale.

And he’s jacked.

Mickey isn’t the only one that’s been working out in the past year. Where before, Gallagher had some muscle hinting around his arms and belly, now he’s just plain muscled.

Mickey’s mouth waters and he WANTS.

Maybe even can have, since Gallagher is here and picking him up. Mickey never had any real expectation that Gallagher would wait for him or anything. They didn’t have any sort of relationship that would require that. They didn’t talk about what was expected of them, because neither of them expected anything. They are compatible sexually, which is nice but if Gallagher has found someone to go steady with, Mickey would have eventually found another sex partner.

Still, it’s kind of nice to know that now that he’s out, he and Gallagher can pick up where they left off.

But there’s Mandy, so Mickey just nods his chin in Gallagher’s direction. “The Hell’s he doing here?” he asks Mandy.

“Hey, Mick,” says Gallagher, casual.

“He thought I needed protection,” Mandy tells him, fingers in her pockets, looking almost shyly pleased to see him. Mickey’s not fooled at all.

“Oh yeah?” he asks, looking at Gallagher with a little grin. He has a feeling it wasn’t so much for Mandy that Gallagher tagged along. “Let me tell you, you might think you know my sister? You don’t know my sister ‘til you’ve fought my sister.” He enfolds Mandy in a hug automatically. She’s the only one he’s allowed to get away with doing that kind of shit with. All the Milkovich boys are protective of Mandy, so it’s not gay to do things like give her the occasional hug or show affection. He keeps it brief, even so, pulling away and leaving one arm around her. “She’s protecting your ass.”

Mandy wrinkles her nose at him. “You smell like barbeque sauce.”

Mickey wastes no time in reminding Mandy of her position as the youngest Milkovich, grabbing her tit and twisting. “Smell like what?” he asks her with an eyebrow raised as she yelps and grabs his hair. Her hand in his hair feels familiar, and good, and nothing like the last time that someone had his hair in their grip.

As he and Mandy bicker and fall back immediately into their old patterns, Gallagher just stands there, hands behind his back and grinning his big stupid grin, and he looks kind of unbearably beautiful. Mickey feels a thrill in his chest because this isn’t like the last time he saw Gallagher. There’s no glass in between them, and even if there’s Mandy right there, they can always get together in a matter of hours to finally scratch that itch that’s been building for nearly a year.

Mickey feels like he’s bubbling over with the sheer vivid feeling of being alive and outside and probably only hours from good sex, and his good feelings take over his good sense as he flips off the guards and the institution where he’s spent the last months of his life.

Ian herds him and Mandy away, with a big, bony hand across Mickey’s shoulder. He lets it stay there a moment, liking the maleness of it, before brushing it off, leaving Gallagher with his arm around just Mandy.

Gallagher at fifteen really hadn’t been Mickey’s type. Too skinny, too short, not big enough to really stand up against Mickey, pin him down the way he sometimes wanted.

What a difference a year makes.

**Author's Note:**

> Also posted on my tumblr here: http://poemjunkie.tumblr.com/post/84370787974
> 
> msashleyjudd8 prompted: I want to know what was going through Mickey’s head, in season 2, as he was coming out of Juvie, and Ian had gotten all Tall and Muscle-y lol


End file.
